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JIM WASN'T EXACTLY A PICKY EATER. Growing up, he had learned to eat what was made for him. Wasting food was a crime he would never commit for fear of a leather belt or a stern talking to from his mother (the look of disappointment from her was enough to have him crying for forgiveness). It only took a few times to imbed that knowledge into his growing brain, and to imbed it so good that it followed him to adulthood.
Jim Halpert was never a picky eater, but he had his favorites and he liked to stay with those favorites. That's a big reason why he only brings ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch, besides the fact he always forgets to make his lunch until minutes before he's rushing out of the door. He likes to say it's because its his favorite lunch meal, though.
He sat at the break room table beside Evelyn, one half of his sandwich sitting on his plastic baggie and the other balancing haphazardly on Evelyn's tray. Two forks were split between them and the beautifully cooked omurice sat between them, ready for consumption.
"Well, what did he look like?" Jim asked, cheese stuck to his bottom lip, his eyes glued on the brunette beside him. Evelyn snorted, tapping the rice with the prongs of her fork. "Why?" she retorted. Jim shrugged, eyes wide. He wasn't even sure why he was so interested in the idea of another man flirting with Evelyn. Sure, he wanted the best for her. If she started dating, he'd want it to be with the right guy. But she's a grown woman. She can make her own decisions...
He pressed the lip of the coke can to his lips before tossing back a mouthful. She watched, waiting, curious for his answer. The prongs stabbed the egg wrapped rice gently, barely breaking the surface. "I dunno," Jim finally answered. "Color me intrigued."
Evelyn rolled her eyes, finally stabbing into the food and bringing it straight to her mouth. Jim's tongue pulled the cheese stuck on his lip into his mouth, his eyes zeroing in on the way her own mouth wrapped around her fork. For a moment, he felt the butterflies in his stomach stir. "He was okay," she answered, half of the food already chewed and swallowed. "I mean, he's your average white man."
Jim's eyebrows suddenly furrowed. "What do you mean?" She turned toward him for a moment, tongue darting across her bottom lip to collect any stray food bits there. Once she had swallowed the rest of her bite, she decided to speak. "If you were to walk down the street somewhere, you'd see carbon copies of the same white man several times. They're average height, brown hair, brown eyes, big-ish noses," she explained. Jim unconsciously touched his nose.
